


I won't leave you

by ThreadSketchier



Series: Love Thy Enemy [1]
Category: Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Again, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because it's me, Family Drama, Gen, I mean come on, Pretentious, a little body horror, eventually, father/son bonding, how can this not be, just not anytime soon, look at who we're dealing with, more feels than I know what to do with so many feeeeeels, no really it's out there I promise, terrible ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:39:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreadSketchier/pseuds/ThreadSketchier
Summary: Oh look it's another Anakin!Lives AU, because the internet just needed one more.





	I won't leave you

**Author's Note:**

> I could make some deep, grand statement about how this story has existed in my fangirl peabrain in one form or another for about 13-14 years now, but I won't belabor y'all - suffice it to say, here's just another self-indulgent, whump-tastic post-ROTJ AU in which Anakin Skywalker thinks his continued existence is a Very Bad Idea but of course his son, lovable little shit that he is, politely disagrees.
> 
> Much credit and thanks to the ever gracious fialleril for some thematic inspiration that I hope I've handled decently, and to any of my Tumblr peeps I've yelled at for help in the miserable throes of my authorial angst.

_ “Father, please!” _

This is the cry that reaches ears long deafened by treachery and despair, the lance that shatters a heart of crumbling stone, the ray of light that pierces through the absolute darkness.

_ "Help me!” _

The boy has no reason to reach out to him, the creature who has provoked and maimed and broken him, the creature he has rightfully defeated.  ( _ Whom he has spared _ , the flickering ray of light whispers.)  Yet he does, not in pathetic desperation but in resolute faith, that the father he refuses to relinquish is there to answer his call.  A hand stretches out toward him in the single moment that it can, before it is drawn back to futilely shield his midsection as he writhes on the floor.

Since the day of his imprisonment, Anakin had thought there was no place left for him in the universe but to crawl to the feet of a new master, the shadow whom he’d believed was the only one who understood him.  Indeed Sidious had understood him, far too well, twisting his chains in all the right ways.  When his own son had rejected him, choosing death over blood and power, the brief flare of his ambition had been quenched.  But he had been mistaken.  Luke had not rejected him, but the cloak of darkness that he wore, the barrier between them he had refused to acknowledge.

_ Anakin, all I want is your love _ .

It is love that propels strangled words and a shaking hand toward him, hard-forged and unconditional, and even as Anakin remains rooted in place, torn by horror and denial, tear-filled eyes reddened by ruptured capillaries convey forgiveness and resignation.  His son has made peace with his sacrifice and does not condemn him as death closes in.

Luke’s screams are cut off as the Emperor’s assault intensifies.  The convulsions wracking his frame become less defensive and more involuntary as his eyes roll back in their sockets, and the acrid stench of burning hair, cloth, and flesh rise above the lightning’s harsh ozone.

The flames of Mustafar dance before Anakin’s inner vision, haloed around his wife’s face, pleading for his return.  The storm rages forth from Palpatine’s will, barely checked by a violet blade.  His mother’s voice cries out across the desert.  Once more he finds himself upon the precipice, faced with a fateful choice.

For too long he has chosen for himself - to avert his pain, to seize power and vindication, to cling to what he needed.

This is his son’s last gift: that of choice.   _ Of freedom _ .  Like none he has ever truly known.  He has been too blind to see it until now.

In truth, like before, there is really no choice at all.  But now there is no cost but to himself.  And for once, rather than add another burden to his soul, a great weight has been lifted, as though he can breathe again on his own despite his iron cage.

How he yearns to crush the decrepit life from his former master with nothing but his bare strength, to seize him in one final, unfeeling embrace that they may both be consumed by this hellish power and rid the galaxy of their blight together.  But alone he fears that Luke will not make it off this station in such a grievous state.  And so he reaches aside with the slightest thought and calls a lightsaber to his hand one last time - not his own, still clutched in the grip of his severed prosthetic, but his son’s.

Even as Palpatine turns, the rage of betrayal contorting his already hideous visage, it is too late. The verdant blade scythes down, cleaving the despot from neck to hip.

He has only moments to act.  With a violent push of the Force he sends the Emperor’s remains hurtling away toward the staircase and the throne, while he throws himself forward to cover and catch Luke’s body.  The dying Sith Lord becomes a nova, a cataclysmic release of all the dark energy contained and channeled within, and the shockwave obliterates everything in its path. The viewports crack and shatter from the blast, exposing the throne room to the ravenous vacuum beyond.

The turbolift door opens at his silent command, and Anakin hauls himself and Luke across the threshold, turning as he falls to keep from crushing his son beneath him.  The door seals itself just as the dark power reaches them, warping its curve and drawing a sharp groan from the metal, but they are safe and already traveling down.

No, he thinks, they are not quite safe yet.  He knows what awaits them below.  But after this, it will be nothing to dispatch.

Luke is rigid in his grasp, muscles still spasming erratically and breath coming in tiny, uneven gasps.  His eyes are wide but glassy and unseeing, and bloody foam trickles from his lips.  He cannot help him yet, not when -

Anakin hears the sharp crackle of force pikes before the lift’s door even begins to open again. The two Royal Guards previously dismissed are ready to face him, their staffs brandished.

In less than an eyeblink they are flying toward the opposite side of the corridor, slamming into the wall with bone-crushing speed and collapsing into lifeless heaps.

At last they are alone, and there is nothing but silence beside the faint sounds of the boy’s suffering.

He has never been a healer, but pain he understands intimately.  It has been his constant for two decades, both his strength and his anguish.  He knows exactly how to control its torrent.  So he lays his hand upon his son’s brow and stands amidst the tempest of his agony, and slowly speaks it into calm.

Over the course of a minute Luke grows limp, his eyes falling shut, breath slowing and deepening.  Consciousness gradually returns as the pain and tension are eased; still weak and disoriented, his gaze roams across their surroundings in confusion before focusing on Anakin. A dawning awareness of what must have happened widens his eyes before tears well and spill out past his temples, and he curls up into his father’s arms.  Hesitant at first, Anakin gently holds Luke close as he cries out his relief and gratitude.  For a moment they simply are, resting and wondering in quiet awe at their reunion.

Klaxons blare in the distance, and Luke lifts his head, his expression turning almost to joyous anticipation.  Glancing at his father as if to beckon him, he grasps a fistful of Anakin’s tabard in his left hand and pulls himself upright to stand, but his legs won’t support him.

With a trace of bittersweet amusement at his own pragmatism, Anakin gathers up his son and carries him, striding down the corridors in haste.  Luke is light in his arms, and doesn’t protest.

Around them swarm fleeing officers and troops as the station evacuates, more than a few sparing a handful of seconds to stare in shock and disbelief at the wholly inexplicable sight of their (former) superior stalking by holding what they guess to be an injured ensign.

Minutes later the deck quakes hard enough to send Anakin down on one knee to keep his balance, and the glowpanels overhead short out, replaced by the angry red glare of emergency lighting.  Luke looks up at him, awkwardly wry, and whispers, “I think I can walk now.”  The words are thick and slurred with a heavy lisp, and Anakin realizes he must have nearly bitten his tongue clean off.

Yes, he must, Anakin thinks, in order for this to work.  Slowly, reluctantly, he lets go of his son, supporting him as Luke stands shakily and musters all his remaining strength into keeping a decent pace.  His arm encircles the boy’s waist, and Luke leans into him; the filtered world falls away as the touch sinks down into his consciousness, soft and vividly sharp all at once.

These are the last moments he will ever have with his son.

There are only two shuttles left in the entire main docking bay, outwardly identical and nondescript, but Anakin knows they must be his and the Emperor’s.  Even in this chaos, no one would dare take them.  He heads toward his own vessel, releasing his hold on Luke, and unhooks the borrowed lightsaber from his belt, offering it back.  The gesture draws a curious glance from Luke, but he accepts it without further thought, and replaces the weapon at his side. The implication doesn’t hit until he is halfway up the boarding ramp, when he turns to see Anakin standing still several meters back.

“Father?” Luke asks, confused and wary.

He has hurt his child for far worse things and justified them; he must wound him once more, this time for his own good.  “My place is here,” Anakin replies.   _ At the end of all this _ .  His children do not need his shadow to linger over the galaxy they are liberating through their own sweat and blood, the galaxy he so deeply failed to protect.  They have overcome in spite of him.  They must be free, even of him.

Leia.  His  _ daughter _ .  He recalls her fire, her conviction, her resilience.  Never had he suspected her true identity, no matter how strongly the ghosts of the past had clung to her in their encounters, but now it makes perfect sense.  If only he had known - but it wouldn’t have mattered.  She would have still suffered under his relentless pursuit, just as her brother had.

He had held her in his grasp as she watched her world crumble.  Perhaps in this, Anakin might give her one final parting gift, a paltry recompense for her loss - to know that he chose to perish with this battle station, this last symbol of the Empire’s broken tyranny.

Luke stares, shakes his head slowly, takes two steps down the ramp.  His eyes burn fervently.  “No.  No, it’s not.  I came here to save you,” he insists.

“You already have, Luke.”  At last he has done what he was born to do.  The Emperor is dead and his -  _ Padmé’s _ \- children are alive.  He cannot undo his wrongs, but hope is not lost.  It will have to be enough.

For a moment Luke falters, confounded by the impasse.  But then he  _ laughs _ .  It is only a small huff, a slight upturn of his lips, but he has the gall to laugh, as if the whole situation is but a minor inconvenience.  “I wanted you to come with me when we were enemies.  Why not now?”

Damn the boy.  Of course he was going to try this, and Anakin was a fool to think it was avoidable.  His left hand clenches.  Luke is smiling now, broad and bright, coming closer and closer, extending his hands in welcome, even the prosthetic now locked in a gnarled fist.  He is disheveled and slick with sweat, his uniform charred and soot-stained, lightning burns arcing across his face and neck, but he is beautiful, and  _ damn the boy _ .

“I cannot give you what you seek,” Anakin protests, desperation rising in his throat.  Time is running out, and he is already losing.  He is half-tempted to push Luke back and trigger the ramp’s closure, but it will be futile.

“I know.”  A veil of sadness passes over Luke’s gaze, and his damaged prosthetic twitches, sending a shiver up his arm that makes him close his eyes and breathe sharply.  But the smile returns.  “That’s not what I’m asking.  Why did you save me?”

_ Because you are my son _ .

His bloodied eyes gleam at some inscrutable memory.  “Father, you’ve done the impossible.  I think you can do it again.”

One more step, and they are face to face on the deck.  “But if this is your choice, then I won’t leave you.”

His son has been ready to die since the moment he chose to surrender himself on the Sanctuary Moon.  No, even further back, even before Cloud City, when he sat within the confines of a starfighter cockpit and launched himself at the first Death Star.  On the threshold of victory, it will still not deter him.

There are not enough curses in all the galaxy for Anakin in this moment.

Conceding defeat, his hand gently closes around Luke’s bionic limb, machine to machine, the desert winds in his soul howling in regret and terror but unable to drown out the songs of freedom he had nearly forgotten -

And then the atmospheric shields short out.

In the split second that Luke instinctively flinches at the sudden roar and gale of escaping air, Anakin is seizing him by the arm and hauling him up bodily, almost throwing him up the ramp. Stumbling, Luke claws at the shuttle’s bulkheads to stay upright and propel himself forward toward the cockpit, where switches and control panels are already flaring to life with silent commands drawn from memory.

The lack of oxygen stifles what would have been a massive conflagration as the docking bay is destroyed, but all around and directly behind them the surface of the Death Star is ripping itself apart and following too closely on their heels.  Dropping into the copilot’s seat, Luke cranks full power to the engines before the inertial compensator can fully engage, and the g-forces slam him back into the chair.  He grins fiercely, his joy and relief escaping in a great sigh as the breath is crushed from his lungs, and passes out.

Anakin holds the ship steady through the onslaught of energy and debris, and they climb away from the Death Star’s pyre, soaring through the glittering blackness.

They are free.


End file.
